


Look Through Heaven's Eyes

by casthewise (quillquiver)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christianity, DeanCas - Freeform, Destiel - Freeform, Fluff, M/M, Religion, Smut, The Prince of Egypt, prince of egypt!au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2014-09-21
Packaged: 2018-02-18 06:58:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2339333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quillquiver/pseuds/casthewise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>DeanCas The Prince of Egypt!AU featuring Dean as the prince of Hel and adoptive charge of Azazel, half brother to Alistair, and Castiel as the slave Seraph, living as the son of the chief of Midian, Michael, with his siblings: Anna, Hael, and Samandriel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Look Through Heaven's Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Also on my [tumblr](http://thursdayschild.co.vu/tagged/prince%20of%20egypt!au) :)

The sand has long since stopped being hot, tiny particles of fire burning and numbing Dean’s skin as he walks. He’s exhausted and thirsty, and feels as if he’s going to collapse at any moment, but the green-eyed prince pushes forward, wincing at the tenderness in his back and shoulders. His skin had always been lighter than that of his adoptive family, and the freckles he’d develop while out in the sun was something Alistair would always tease him about. His fair skin is littered with them now, his flesh turning an angry red as he walks, bare but for the princely kilt he had been wearing in Hel. He has long since shed his jet black wig and royal jewelry, but the thin layer he wears is still too much in he blistering heat. The only thing keeping Dean from stripping completely is the certainty of a sunburnt ass.

He’s contemplating how terrible it would be to sit down for a moment; to dig himself a hole and stay there as punishment for all the evil he’s done, when Dean sees the well.

Or, he prays it’s a well. It could very well be a mirage.

"Ah! What are you doing?! Help!"

"Leave us alone!"

"Wait!"

Squinting against the sunlight, Dean can barely make out the shapes of three children standing very close to two other figures. Taller and dressed in heavy black, Dean identifies them as adult brigands. As the shouting continues, the prince stumbles forward, the scene becoming more clear the nearer he draws.

"Let our sheep drink!" A little boy draped in yellow material yells.

The second child, dark hair poking messily out of her robes nods in agreement. She shields her brother and pulls the sheep towards her. “Get away!”

"Stop it!" The third and eldest exclaims. Her red hair is bright as her clothing as she pushes and pulls at the men. "Our father is the High Priest of Midian, when he hears of this, you’re going to be in trouble!"

Dean, frowning, watches the siblings for a moment in slight confusion. He’s muddled and fuzzy from dehydration, but gathers his wits enough to notice two camels standing calmly off to the side. Dean untethers them. “Hey, assholes!”

All parties in front of the well cease their yelling.

Dean cocks an innocent brow. The tethers drop onto the sand. “…Aren’t these your camels?”

The men in black immediately disentangle themselves from the children, stepping forward with their hands outstretched peacefully. But Dean’s already reaching back to give each animal a solid smack in the rear. “Hut hut!”

When the camels run off, their owners follow.

And Dean, oblivious to the astonished stares of the children, scrambles towards the well. They’ve never seen a man so cleanly shaved before, nor one so bareheaded. Dean is worlds different than their own menfolk, who have facial hair and longer locks. His lack of clothing contrasts sharply to the robes and closed shoes the Seraphs wear against the heat of the sand. The three children watch as Dean pulls up the bucket quickly, submerging almost his entire face as he drinks. Further and further he leans into the bucket, until the loose stone against Dean’s stomach is pushed into the water below, the prince of Hel following not long after.

Though the cold water does wonders for his burning skin, Dean would prefer not to be at the bottom of a well. He splutters for a moment, gasping as he reaches for a loose rope. “Hang on!” One of the children yells.

Though there are three of them, neither Hael, Samandriel, nor Anna are very strong. They’re pulling with all their might, the rope cutting into their fingers, when their older brother walks by. “What are you three doing?” Castiel asks pleasantly. His dark blue robes swish while he walks, his golden skin radiant against the yellow embroidery on its edges. The light blue of his eyes give him an ethereal appearance in the middle of the desert, and he walks as if completely at ease in such a harsh climate. He is, by far, the most exotic and beautiful member of the tribe.

Hael grunts as she gives another hard tug. “Trying to get the funny man out of the well!”

Castiel raises a bemused brow. “Trying to get the funny man out of well? That’s one I’ve never heard before.”

From below, Dean hears the muffled voices and closes his eyes, holding tight to the slippery rope. With a squeak from above, the rope drops a couple of terrifying feet with no warning and the prince shouts in alarm.

Castiel’s eyes widen in realization. Quickly, he runs over to the side of the well, almost propelling himself over the side in his haste to witness the drenched figure. He can’t make out any features, but a person is clearly down there. “Hold on!” he calls below. “We’ll get you out!”

With Castiel’s help, Dean manages to be pulled up almost effortlessly. The drenched man is trembling as he nears the lip of the well, squinting against the light as he hears previously muffled voices become clearer. 

"…And pull! Anna, take over for your brother. Samandriel, step away. Another! Good, girls, one more—!"

When Dean comes face-to-face with his saviour, a couple of things happen at once; the first of which being that he’s inches away from the lovely face Azazel had gifted to him not so long ago. Though Dean still doesn’t know the man’s name, he’s as gorgeous as ever; perhaps even more so, with his lightly curling hair playing messily in the rare breeze, and blue eyes brighter against the colour of his robes.

It becomes immediately clear that the man recognizes Dean as well, because he takes one look at the water-logged prince and curls his lip in disgust. “ _You_!” he sneers, surprised. Simultaneously, he then lets go of the rope. It snaps out of his siblings’ hands and Dean falls back into the water with a satisfying splash.

Smirking, Castiel makes a show of dusting off his hands. He nods with a vindictive ‘hmph’ before striding away.

Perplexed by their brother’s odd behaviour, Hael and Samandriel look to their older sister for an explanation. Anna merely sighs, a disappointed shake to her head. “And that’s why Michael says he’ll never get married.”

***

Dean can tell that the heathen is having the time of his life. The blue-eyed Seraph stands at the mouth of the tent with his siblings, completely unashamed as he watches Dean get scrubbed head to toe. He smiles as his brother and sisters giggle at every one of the prince’s protests, whispering to them in a harsh-sounding language. Dean has gathered that the little boy is called Samandriel; the youngest sister, Hael; and the eldest, Anna.

"Ah—! No, thanks ladies, but I'm really squeaky cl—HOLY—" Dean crashes to his ass, having lost his balance due to one of the elder ladies scrubbing his leg. They tut and shake their heads at the mess he's made, but decide to take the opportunity to wash Dean's feet.

The prince plasters himself to the side of the basin, white-knuckling the lip as he gasps for air. "S-Stop!" he chokes through his laughter. "That tickles! N-No more. No—"

When they finish, Dean looks up at his tormentors, red-faced and even more exhausted. When he sees one of the women rub another cloth with lye, green eyes widen in alarm. "That's unnecessary, please," Dean begs. "You cleaned every inch of me!"

The lady plunges her hand into the soapy water, hauling him up to wash his most private areas. Dean, beyond embarrassed, sputters and chokes out indignant protests.

The four Seraphs howl with laughter. Looking at the blue-eyed man, head thrown back and with a wide smile on his face, Dean feels his own lips quirk. If he can bring such an expression to the other man's face, then perhaps this vulnerability isn't so—

A bucket of water is upended on his head.

Dean coughs through the giggles from his spectators, making out another voice through his waterlogged ears. It's big and warm, and Dean sees its owner as he pushes into the tent: a black-haired, harsh-looking man with dark eyes. His smile is kind and welcoming, the thing at complete odds with his hard, chiseled features and physique. He wears a grey robe and white coat.

"Let me through! Let me through!" he booms, scattering the other Seraphs. "I want to see him!"

Dean feels his heart in his throat. He's sure he looks like a drowned rat. His knees knock, hands moving to cover himself as he shivers.

When the man locks eyes with him, his cheery smile broadens.

The prince is expecting a great many things, but being hugged is most definitely not one of them. His expression must be something composed of sheer hilarity because the blue-eyed Seraph snorts. The sound is distracting.

Meanwhile, the man's have arms lifted Dean from the basin. "You are most welcome!" he exclaims, squeezing more tightly. Dean grunts. "You should not be a stranger in this land." The larger man then takes off his coat, draping it over Dean's shoulders. It's heavier than what the prince is used to and he sways on his feet, trying to find his balance.  "You have been sent as a blessing!" The elder Seraph continues. His declaration is punctuated by a friendly slap on Dean's back, the man's strength so great that the prince staggers forward. "...And tonight," the other man smiles. "You shall be my honoured guest." He turns on his heel then, striding out of the tent just as quickly as he’d come.

The prince is stunned. He's staring at the mouth of the tent when the blue-eyed Seraph approaches, gait light and graceful as he glides across the space. His eyes swim with mirth. Stopping right in front of Dean and his open coat, the other man reaches forward and grabs the ties of the garment, closing the material and shielding the prince's body from view. "You should keep your modesty, Prince," he says, brow raised. Long fingers tighten the sash around his waist almost painfully. "It is unbefitting to expose oneself, especially in front of slaves."

The oddest thing in this situation is that the mirth never leaves the other man's eyes, as if his rough treatment amounts to nothing more than poking fun. In fact, Dean has the distinct feeling that the blue-eyed beauty is  _laughing_  at him. Though well deserved, it’s frustrating… Dean has so many things he wants to say, but none of them even remotely reach his tongue. So, the prince stays quiet, regarding the Seraph before him cautiously. He's a creature unlike any Dean has ever met.

When it becomes clear that the prince will not say a word, the blue-eyed man steps away, nodding his head towards the tent flap. "My father, Michael," he explains. "The High Priest of Midian." It looks like he's about to say something else, but the Seraph then thinks better of it, walking towards the mouth of the tent. "Come, Prince."

Dean chews his lip, but stays put. "...Dean."

The Seraph stops. He turns, brows raised in surprise and silent question as he crosses his arms over his chest.

"Dean," the prince repeats more strongly. "My name is Dean."

The Seraph narrows his eyes ever so slightly, regarding Dean with something akin to suspicion. "...I am called Castiel," he says cautiously.

"Castiel," Dean repeats under his breath. "It's nice to meet you."

He extends his hand. Castiel looks at it, unimpressed. "Come outside, Prince," he repeats.

And then he's gone.

Dean stays in the tent for a moment longer, trying to push down the disappointment in his gut. When he finally steps outside, the young man finds himself in the middle of what appears to be a meeting of some sort. People are seated around a blazing fire, either on logs or rocks or bits of clothing. As Dean looks more closely, he realizes that this is the evening meal—if the bowls of steaming stew-like substance are anything to go by. The sun is setting and the prince scans the crowd for an empty seat. "Psst!" At the tug of his robes, Dean looks down to find Samandriel. "Sit with me!"

The prince chews his lip. He would sit with the boy in a heartbeat, but the space available is small. In addition, it's other side is right beside Castiel.

But looking at Samandriel's wide, hopeful eyes, it's hard to say no. "Um, sure," Dean replies quietly. "Alright."

He takes a seat, breath whooshing out in what feels like relief when Castiel scoots over to give him more room. It's not the most comfortable thing he's ever sat on, but there's something about being in such close quarters with people that's... nice. Full.

Famished, Dean cuts his thoughts short in favour of eyeing up the fruit bowl almost directly in front of him. Reaching forward, he picks up something red and yellow and pleasant-smelling. From Samandriel's other side, Hael leans over and tugs on his sleeve. "Psst!" she whispers. "Not yet!"

"Oh, sorry!" Chastened, Dean carefully puts the food back as he'd found it. He looks over at Castiel to see if the young man had witnessed his blunder, and the small quirk of the other's pale lips tells him he had. Dean's cheeks blossom red.

Michael, meanwhile, is walking around the fireside with a gentle smile. He ruffles a child's hair and stops to chat with a young woman. The interactions are so kind, so unlike what Dean is used to, that he can't help but stare... And when everyone is seated, Michael begins to speak:

"My children!" he grins. "Let us give thanks for this bountiful food." His arm sweeps over the blankets of sustenance, gaze landing warmly on Dean. The prince looks down, shy. "And let us also give thanks for the presence of the brave young man whom we honour here tonight."

Dean swallows thickly. He's done nothing worth the kindness he's being shown here. He had been a prince of Hel, blinded to the misery and suffering of his people. Dean can remember the whip he'd cracked over a slave's shoulder, and the easy glide of a knife through soft flesh. He had tortured and hurt and there would be no forgiving that. Unable to look up, Dean clenches his fist and shakes his head, ashamed. "Please, Sir, don't—I wish you wouldn't," he says, small. "I haven't done anything in my life worth honouring."

Michael's expression is shocked. He frowns, speechless as he regards the smaller, clearly upset man before him. Dean is resolutely looking at his hands, and therefore can’t see that Castiel's expression perfectly mimics that of his father. The blue-eyed man's fingers twitch like he's tempted to reach out to the other seated beside him, but refrains, settling for eyeing Dean like he's something completely new.

Michael steps forward. "First, you rescue Castiel," he says firmly. "Then, you defend my younger children from the brigands... You think that is nothing?" Michael's brows soften then, his smile turning to something almost pitying. "My son, it seems that you do not know what is worthy of honour."

Dean's head snaps up. "But—"

"You're here now," Michael interrupts, as if knowing exactly what Dean is going to say. From the look on his face, the Seraph truly does. "You've saved my family," he continues. "Forgiveness is something practiced freely here. What's past is past. Your actions  _now_ , they are what matter, Dean."

Dean wants to protest, but can't seem how to get past the lump in his throat. How can these people stand to be in his presence, especially knowing who he is and what he's done?

“Now,” Michael says with finality. “Let us eat and be merry, and celebrate the arrival of our new,  _and honoured_ —” He looks at Dean. “—Friend. Be'te-avon!”

The party begins with the happy hum of conversation, and the smell of food. It’s unlike the raucous, violent and oddly cold banquets in Hel. Jeering laughter is replaced with happy smiles and giggles, and raw, bloody meat is traded in for spiced vegetables and sweet fruit. Though the quantity is meager for the number of people—and therefore Dean eats less than he ever has during a meal—it’s the best supper of his life. Samandriel and Hael talk through their full mouths with crumb-strewn smiles, coaxing a similar expression from the prince as well.

Then the music starts. Anna squeals at her favourite song, empty bowl abandoned as she drags her siblings up to dance. Castiel is included in this lot, the young man kicking off his shoes with the best of them as he joins the slowly growing, happy fray of dancers. He holds hands and moves with his people as if a single, perfect part of a flawless whole.

Dean is soon one of the very few still seated, and though he’s alone, the prince is completely content to watch these people clad in colourful, bright material with even brighter smiles. Each person is a partof something bigger than themselves.

Castiel comes around the circle for the hundredth time, a wide smile on his face as Hael hangs off his arm. Samandriel is balanced on his hip, but the two children abandon him as he draws nearer, grin never faltering. Though Castiel dances past, his siblings remain, tugging the prince up to participate despite his protests. Dean is dragged into the middle of the fray, blushing and stumbling through the steps as he murmurs apologies.

“Like this!” Anna explains, slowing down only briefly to show him how. Though it takes three times around the circle, Dean masters the steps by the fourth time he passes his seat. He’s smiling by then, warm and full with the feeling of belonging himself.

“Dean!” Samandriel calls as the song finishes, launching himself into the prince’s arms. He giggles when Dean gives a playful growl and throws the young boy up towards the sky only to catch and hold him close. It’s instinct; the innocently playful and tactile behaviour that he’d always felt so out of place displaying in Hel. But here… here it’s welcomed. Dean memorizes the feel of little fingers fiddling with the collar of his borrowed robe, looking at the small being in his arms with his utmost attention. Samandriel bites his lip. “Will you dance with me?” he asks shyly.

Dean couldn’t say no if he wanted to.

The prince dances with everyone, though Castiel’s siblings seem to take up most of his attentions. The three children are obsessed with the man who saved them, asking to touch his hair and face between dances. Dean lets them with a smile.

And Castiel, though always in a different circles, watches with an ever-softening look in his eyes.

When the sky is bright with stars, Dean takes a moment to rest. He sits down to the dismay of the children, waving them off with promises of later play. Leaning back on his palms, the prince surveys the party, eyes catching on the figure clad in blue as he spins and jumps enthusiastically. Dean smiles as he watches Castiel dance ever closer, his beauty in the firelight incomparable to one hundred desert nighttime skies and five thousand rare blooming flowers. He’s exquisite: graceful as he moves like he was born for nothing but this expression of complete and utter joy. His hair is curling with sweat, skin damp and sparkling with it. On his wrists jangle gold bracelets Dean hadn’t noticed before. The prince is so focused on studying the Seraph that he doesn’t realize Castiel is in his space until he’s stopped moving completely.

“Hi,” Dean greets, carefully holding the gaze of the other’s wild blue eyes. He’s fully prepared to be scolded for staring, but the Seraph says nothing. This close, the prince can see that Castiel’s cheeks are flushed, his chest heaving with happy effort.

Castiel extends his hand: an invitation.

Their palms are sliding together before Dean can truly think. He lets himself be led back to the merriment, both parties completely silent as Castiel slips in between people and begins to move. The transition is flawless, and Dean is left admiring it for a moment too long, staggering after his partner as he attempts to catch up. Not that this attempt necessarily does the prince any good; Castiel’s palm is hot and calloused against his own, fingers tightening at odd intervals that provide more than enough distraction to keep Dean stumbling.

In fact, the prince’s blunders are so frequent that Castiel is forced to pull him to the side, the tips of Dean’s ears red in spite of his smile. Castiel’s overt joy is contagious.

“Oh, Prince,” the Seraph teases, entangling their fingers. Dean is almost ashamed of how eagerly he responds. “Is your head so full of royal knowledge you’ve forgotten simple dance steps so soon?” Castiel holds their joined hands at about shoulder level, coming face-to-face with Dean for the third time in less than twenty-four hours. His brow is quirked, baby blues playful as he eyes his partner, almost bursting at the seams with mirth.

They dance for a long time.

It starts with the slow swing of legs, turning faster and faster until both men are gripping each other’s hands tightly, foreheads pressed together as they watch the fire-lit movement of their feet. Castiel spins Dean out at one point, guiding him back into place almost effortlessly as they continue on. By the time they pull away, the fire has been reduced to embers, and the musicians, romantic souls that they are, are the only ones left awake. Even Michael has retired, Castiel notices with embarrassment. He lets go of Dean’s hands quickly. “I should—it’s late,” he blurts out. “I’ll show you to your tent.”

Castiel passes the musicians with flushed cheeks, murmuring his thanks. When the prince follows, he makes his appreciation known as well, both for playing for such a long period of time, and their talent. Castiel watches the interaction with a little smile that he tries, in vain, to bite back.

While the pair walk to Dean’s tent, their fingers brush constantly. They step right in front of the flap, and Dean is pleasantly surprised to find that Castiel lingers. “Everything should be ready for you,” the Seraph murmurs quietly, nodding towards the tent. “But, if it isn’t, my tent is at the end.”

“Thanks,” Dean replies, if a little awkward. “For everything. The… dancing and, um…”

“You’re welcome,” Castiel says quickly, trying to fill the empty spaces in the conversation. It doesn’t work; a quiet soon descends upon the pair in an almost suffocating manner, causing Dean’s hands to itch.

“So…”

“I—”

They give each other embarrassed smiles. "You should get some sleep," Castiel says first. "After all the excitement today, I'm sure you're exhausted."

Though disappointed, Dean nods. "Yeah, um... yeah. Night." He turns then, fully intending to sleep, but is stopped by the feeling of fingers brushing across his hand.

"Goodnight, Dean," Castiel murmurs.

The prince whirls around, only barely catching the other man's smile as he disappears into the darkness. Grinning like a lunatic, Dean slips inside his tent and throws himself down on the bedroll with a sigh. Biting his lips, he struggles for a moment before parting them in the cool air, whispering as if divulging the most precious secret.

"Night, Cas."

***

"Oh Sweet Prince, how it amazes us of a lesser breed! Did the demons not teach you how to walk?"

The sheer sarcastic desperation of the question make Dean's eyes roll so hard, he fears they'll fall from his head.

Castiel is doing it on purpose. Dean has been with the Seraphs for a little more than two weeks now, and what started off as the odd friendly nudge here and there has escalated to near violence. When Dean was getting shouldered by a camel or Castiel himself, fine, but not... this.

Picking himself up, the prince rolls his shoulders and walks it off, trailing sand behind him. He catches up to the other man in a few long strides.

...And promptly jumps on top of him.

"Oh Sweet Seraph," he mimics sarcastically. "How it amazes us unworthy to look upon your majesty! Did your tribe not teach you how to  _stand_?"

Castiel coughs up sand. "You're despicable."

"I'm adorable."

"Perhaps," the Seraph concedes, eyes narrowed. "I haven't yet decided."

Leaving Dean speechless, Castiel gets up and walks away.

***

As a member of the tribe for about a month now, Dean is given the task of shepherd. It's an important and respected position, and already many of the Seraphim women have taken notice. Some have directly made their interest in the prince known.

Dean doesn’t understand why. After so long in the desert, his scruff and hair are longer, sure, but his light brown locks are still kept quite short. Though he resembles some of the few Seraphs with pale skin, the prince mostly looks like a stranger. Castiel tells him this makes him exotic.

“My people are not used to short hair,” he’d explained when Dean had asked what all the fuss was about, the blue-eyed Seraph curiously brushing a palm over the thick, spiky strands. “The fact that you possess this is desirable because it’s so rare. Your fair skin is another rarity. To a Seraph, you’re very exotic-looking.”

Dean doesn't ask if he's exotic to Castiel as well.

The prince's obvious disinterest in any and all kinds of courtship thereafter puts an end to the advances from tribe members, and has the added bonus of bringing he and Castiel—the only other bachelor his age—even closer. The Seraph had started visiting Dean in the pastures a little over a week ago, first under the pretence of making sure he was doing his job, and then, more recently, simply to socialize.

Dean enjoys the long talks they have sprawled out in the sparse grass, chatting about everything and nothing as they laugh or argue good-naturedly.

They're currently sitting on the boulder in the middle of the pasture, keeping an eye on the sheep as they soak in the sun. Dean hates the veritable galaxy of freckles that have exploded over his exposed skin, but Castiel doesn't seem to mind them.

"Do you mind if I call you Cas?"

A shrug. "No, why would I?"

"I don't know, man... maybe you're sensitive about that kind of stuff."

"Cas is fine."

"And hey,” Dean says cheerfully. “You know what rhymes with Cas?"

"What?" Castiel asks, distracted. He frowns at some of the sheep ambling towards the edge of the pasture.

The prince’s smile almost breaks his face. "Ass,” he informs his friend.

When Dean enters the main part of camp with a smear of sheep feces on his face, nobody asks.

***

Dean fits into the Seraph tribe seamlessly. He spends his days enjoying the barren desert landscape and leading his flock, while his nights and mornings often involve playing with the children; Samandriel in particular has taken a shining to him. Sometimes, when they don't have lessons, he takes the kids with him to tend to the sheep. He's still living on borrowed clothing, but Dean is happy. Content.

And of course, there's Cas.

Castiel makes Dean wildly happy. He can't remember ever enjoying the simple act of being around someone as he does the High Priest's eldest son. The pair spend almost every free moment together, sometimes simply content to be in each other's presence without requiring conversation.

Dean thinks about his friend a lot. He thinks about Cas's wild hair and his bright blue eyes and they way they crinkle at the edges when he smiles. He thinks about Castiel's calloused, able hands and his heart-stopping grin. About his sharp wit and odd sense of humour.

And, Dean thinks helplessly, weaving a colourful bouquet of flowers around Michael's borrowed staff, he's a little bit in love with him.

...This time, when Cas comes to visit him in the pasture, Dean keeps his staff hidden, though when it’s time to leave he gets up specifically without it. As planned, Castiel grabs the tool from where it's half poking out from behind a rock, pausing midway into Dean's name when he sees the flowers. Steeling himself for rejection, the prince turns only to be met by a softly smiling Castiel, whose long, reverent fingers are delicately brushing over soft petals.

Dean watches the Seraph carefully untangle the bouquet, holding it in his hand as he jumps down from the rock, staff clutched in his other fist. He gives the stick to his friend with a smile, very briefly entwining their fingers with a squeeze before walking back towards camp. Castiel keeps the flowers, dried, in his tent.

***

Dean and Cas hold hands every so often. Usually it's when they're alone; in the pastures or off doing some other chore, hands swinging between them as they walk. Dean has lost count of the number of times he's had the privilege of simply tracing the lines of Cas's palms, fingers moving and tracing and dancing in steps neither man understands, but feel nice.

Sometimes, they hold hands in Castiel's tent. Sometimes in Dean's.

And more recently, when Cas walks his friend to his tent before they retire, their fingers entwine before parting ways.

***

Hugging happens naturally. It's an easy transition from holding hands before bed at night to simply wrapping arms around the other person and holding them close. The contact lasts for longer than necessary, too; Dean's hand tangling in dark hair while Castiel fists his robes, inhaling the musk and spice scent at the former prince's neck. This is a lot more difficult to hide from prying eyes no matter how late they retire, but the desire for closeness far outweighs any other concerns.

People whisper excitedly.

***

 _Oh, sun-kissed Prince, more fair than the sweetest desert flower, more red than the clay beneath my feet! It seems the sun loves you_ too  _much._

Despite Castiel's teasing, the Seraph is the sweetest person Dean has ever known. He lends a hand whenever it is required of him, and sometimes when it isn't. He never shirks his duties, but takes on those that need completing and haven't been at the end of the day. He helps make food, collect water, and whenever something breaks, no matter what time of night, Castiel will always try to fix it. He's not soft by any means, but the kindness underneath his prickly exterior is truly something to behold.

Dean first experienced it when Cas came into his tent during his first weeks in the tribe, carrying a bowl of sweet-smelling paste. "It will help with the burns and blisters," he'd explained easily, tending to Dean like it was nothing.

He came by until Dean's blisters had hardened into callouses.

Now, Dean is a full-fledged Seraph. He’s been given his own robes, shoes, and a tent and staff befitting of his position. His hands and feet are calloused, and his skin is, finally, bronzing. He’s part of a family… he belongs. And Castiel—thoughtful, beautiful Castiel—is just as kind as ever. He bandages a small cut on Dean’s forehead, scolding his friend to hold still as he rubs some of his healing paste on it. The former prince had been climbing to get some rocks for the fire pit and had scraped himself in the process. "Cas, I'm fine, really—"

Castiel smacks Dean's hand away, fussing. "And if it gets infected, what then? Why did you have to go up so high? There were plenty of rocks that didn't require you to  _scale the mountain_."

"Well, now you're just being dramatic."

"Dean."

"Look, the ones at the top were better, okay? And I'm fine, seriously."

"You're reckless," Castiel corrects. "And one day, you'll get yourself killed."

"Nah," Dean murmurs. "It's not my time."

Cas snorts. "And how do you know that?"

 _Because I haven't married you yet_. The words are on the tip of his tongue but he can't bring himself to say them. Not now. Not when they work so well just being  _this._

Dean shrugs, trying to simultaneously answer Cas's question and brush off the race of his heart swiftly brought on by Castiel reaching for his hands. His darker, smooth skin is sinful against Dean's own, and the prince pushes those thoughts away the moment they arrive.

Sighing, Cas untangles one of his hands, smoothing out the bandage before leaning forward and pressing a small kiss to the covered area.

Dean's breath hitches.

"My mother once told me that a kiss makes an injury or ailment feel better," Cas explains softly. He then drops his lips to Dean's scruffy cheek, pressing his mouth there as well. "You're very injured," he breathes.

Dean's hand squeezes his tightly.

Castiel makes his way carefully down to Dean's neck, worshipping the skin there. He shuffles forward when the other’s hands reach for his hips, pulling him close until Cas is practically seated in Dean’s lap, carefully placing soft, innocent kisses wherever he can reach.

“Cas…” the green-eyed man sighs, wrapping his arms around the other man as he tries to pull back, desperate to kiss him.

“Castiel!”

The blue-eyed Seraph jerks upwards in surprise, knocking Dean’s jaw by mistake. The pair groan in pain. “Sorry, I’m sorry,” Cas says hurriedly, straightening his clothing as he makes his way to the tent flap. He pauses to run a hand through his hair though that does nothing to salvage it. “I’ll be there in a minute!” he yells back.

Hovering between the door and his best friend for half a moment, Castiel rushes back towards the latter, planting a rushed, chaste kiss to the corner of Dean’s mouth. “Later,” he says. “By the pastures. Don’t feel pressured if you don’t want—”

“Cas,” Dean interrupts, cutting off the other with a proper kiss. It’s sloppy and hard and desperate, but gets the point across. As far as first kisses go, however, it’s less than ideal. “I want. Now go before Michael comes in here looking for you.”

“Okay.” This time, Castiel only makes it halfway to the door before he finds himself back in Dean’s arms, eyes closed as they hold each other close, lips smacking together in quiet little demonstrations of love. “This isn’t fair,” Castiel complains between kisses. “Not when I’ve just gotten to have you.”

Dean smiles, the words a veritable fire in his chest. "Go so you can come back," he whispers logically, brushing strands of dark hair from Cas's face. He presses their foreheads together. "Hurry back to me."

“Always," Castiel promises fiercely.

Dean kisses him softly then, the thing meant as a goodbye kiss but growing into something more tender and meaningful as the seconds pass. They lean into each other until one man doesn't know where he ends and his love begins, holding and touching in a way that is heart-stoppingly gentle.

"Castiel?" Michael's voice is directly outside Dean's tent.

Cas pulls away with a small noise of disappointment. He buries his face in Dean's neck with a muttered curse, smiling against warm skin when he feels Dean chuckle. "Got him right here, Chief!"

Castiel huffs in annoyance. "Come with me?"

"I promised Hael I'd help her with her ceremony stuff," Dean replies, apologetic. Castiel eyes fill to the brim with affection.

"Then tonight?" he asks. "After sundown. Meet me by the boulder."

"I'll be there."

***

Sundown creeps along and then comes all at once, so that by the time Hael is ready for her coming of age ceremony, her dress has been fixed, her speech practiced and her dance choreographed. Dean takes his meal on the way to the pastures, easily slipping away with a bowl, spoon and fruit. He hasn't seen hide nor hair of Cas since they parted ways earlier that afternoon, but the shepherd is practically tingling in excitement. He walks like a man on a mission, the trek cut in half even with only moonlight to guide him.

He gets to the pastures just in time to see Cas scramble up onto the boulder.

Dean grins, wolfs down his lentils, and tucks the fruit into his pocket. Leaving both bowl and spoon on a nearby rock, the young man scales the boulder as silently as possible, creeping up behind Cas until he can grab the other around his middle.

But Castiel's reflexes and hearing are sharper than Dean's, and within no time, the blue-eyed man has his friend by the collar, pressing him against the ground.

It takes him a second to realize the intruder is his shepherd. "Dean," Cas breathes, relieved. His eyes narrow. "You nearly gave me a heart-attack!"

Dean is smacked playfully upside the head for his trouble, though the shepherd does not sit idle. He pushes Castiel away a little more roughly then intended.

Which then of course sparks an impromptu wrestling match. It ends with Dean pinned to the sparsely grassed dirt, smiling up at Cas as he quickly pushes out the other's knee, causing the blue-eyed man to land directly on top of him with an 'oof'. Dean takes Cas's surprised state to tangle their legs together, grinning at the feel and weight of Castiel pressed against him head to toe. "You know," the shepherd says conversationally. "We've been here for a good fifteen minutes and you still haven't kissed me."

"I should probably rectify that."

"Mmm."

It starts out soft. Delicate. Like both men are unsure how far to go. However, a subtle, unconscious shift of Castiel's hips changes that. Dean gasps in response to the friction against his crotch, and Cas licks into his open mouth eagerly. In what feels like no time, Dean and Castiel have gone from chastely kissing to furiously making out in the pasture, hidden from view by the boulder but for two pairs of entangled feet.

When they sneak back into camp in the early hours of the morning, it’s with red, swollen lips and dual fires in their bellies.

***

Dean is wholly in love with Cas. He's in love with the way he tilts his head when he doesn't understand, and the way his brows and nose scrunch when he doesn't agree. He's in love with the way Cas pushes up the sleeves of his robe before he gets to work, even if they fall to his wrists seconds later; the way he keeps a piece of charcoal behind his ear just in case. Dean is in love with the way Castiel dances. The way he walks and teases and talks with his hands. But most of all, Dean is in love with the way Cas  _loves_.

The Seraph does so with wild abandon, easily demonstrating his affections to those he cares about. He tickles and wrestles with his siblings often, showering them with kisses and hugs as they push him off, glaring despite their wide smiles. He holds them close when they cry. Castiel smiles at everyone, and has no qualms against holding Dean's hand in public. And when they're alone...

Castiel is completely laid bare.

He's not embarrassed of the things he feels and wants, as if social constructs possess no meaning for him; king of loyalty and love. He whispers words that pin Dean to the earth as easily as they make him fly, things that make him blush in bashful innocence and flush with carnal heat.

It's strange to Dean, to be so open with another person, but he tries his best under the cover of darkness, whispering affection into Castiel's skin as they lay on the grass, kissing in languid, unhurried motions.

Though he’s still quite unsure about a lot of things regarding the Seraph’s One True God, Dean is certain of one: if God requires his people to love Him above all else, he is committing an act of unspeakable blasphemy.

Because Dean, truly, does not think he can love  _anyone_  as much as he does Castiel.

***

“Dance with me!”

The Seraph twirls, a blur of colour as he spins towards Dean’s seat, kerchief swinging in expert time.

In one smooth movement he’s swung the red material around the nape of the shepherd’s neck, tugging the other man up and close as they disappear into the throng of people, carving out a space for themselves right next to the roaring fire. This dance is different than the ones they usually take part in, with Cas’s body pressed flush to his as he moves. Though they both hold the kerchief, it’s strangely sensual.

When Dean asks why people have been smiling at him coyly the next day, Samandriel explains that Cas, by dancing with him in such a way the evening previous, has made known to the entire tribe that no one else is to court him.

The shepherd can barely wait until he’s finished his morning chores before slipping into Castiel’s tent, showering the other man with wet, sloppy kisses as he attempts to make his bed roll. “No one else can have me, Castiel?” Dean chides against Cas’s nape, pulling down his rob to expose a bronzed shoulder.

The blue-eyed Seraph chokes back unintelligible noises, reaching around to fist in Dean’s robes when the other bites and sucks at his skin. Castiel only just has the presence of mind to turn, pushing his shepherd into the floor as he kisses him harshly. “No one else can  _touch you_ ,” he corrects.

And no one else does.

***

“Uh… Cas?”

“Mm?”

“What—ah, what’re you doing?”

Castiel finishes unraveling his scarf, dropping the material onto the dirt as he raises a brow. He shrugs off his coat. “You don’t expect me to bathe fully clothed, do you?”

Cas had stolen him away after supper that evening, fingers entwined as he’d pulled him from camp and led him a half hour away, past the pastures and up into the mountain. He’d finally stopped when they reached a modestly sized pool of water, shimmering in the light of the full moon. It’s beautiful; with colourful flowers growing all around it and a small waterfall tumbling into its far side. Nearer, the pool opens up into a miniscule stream.

The moment they’d arrived, Castiel had begun stripping.

Dean thinks he has the right to be a little flustered. “Well, no, I—uh… I mean,  _no,_ that’d be—counterproductive, but…”

With a smirk, Cas’s robe joins the rest of his clothing. He’s completely nude now, save for the one gold necklace he keeps under his garments at all times. It had belonged to his mother, he’d explained once, and it is his most treasured possession.

Dean keeps his eyes away from that necklace.

From his brief glimpse, the shepherd knows it’s settled comfortably on a wide expanse of gorgeous, paler skin, and he knows— _he knows_ —that looking at Castiel’s chest will only make the urge of giving in to observe  _all of him_  that much greater.

Planting his gaze firmly on his partner’s face, Dean keeps his hands firmly at his sides when Cas steps up to him, banishing all thoughts of the other’s naked skin against his palms. The Seraphim may not regard nudity as something incredibly private, but living in Hel for most of his life has engrained bad habits. You were exposed if you were naked there; vulnerable to evil and pain. It wasn’t something a person did unless married, or absolutely sure of the trust between his or her partner.

Not that Dean is  _unsure_ if he trusts Castiel.

The Seraph is incredibly close now, blue eyes searching green in the same warm, safe, weighted way they always do. Cas looks kind, and gentle, and he smells of cardamom. This close, the shepherd can see the soft blush on his cheeks. He’s not dangerous, and Dean would trust him with his life.

Castiel leans forward and pecks his lips sweetly. “Come,” the Seraphs says softly, brushing their fingers. He turns to slip into the pool.

And Dean is scared. He’s scared of being vulnerable. He’s scared of what this represents. He’s scared of everything… even though he knows he needn’t be. After all, at the heart of all of this is Cas, and Cas would never hurt him.

It’s this thought that gives the shepherd the courage to slip off his clothing.

Castiel is at the far end of the pool, the other man only further confirming Dean’s trust in him as he lets his love bare himself privately. The Seraph only turns when he hears movement in the water, and by that time Dean is seated on the edge of the pool, his robe draped over his groin while the rest of him glows pale in the moonlight. His toes and calves are completely submerged.

Cas swims over.

He’s got his serious look about him, the one that’s always followed by something heart-breakingly sweet, and this time is no different; trailing dripping fingers over Dean’s kneecaps, lips following in their wake, the Seraph rests his chin on Dean’s legs with a sigh. “I love you,” he says quietly, looking down immediately after. “I love your goodness and kindness and grace. Your intelligence. The way you laugh. Your smile. Your eyes.” Cas bites his lip, carefully looking up and touching his fingers to Dean’s cheekbone. “Your freckles. I love that you love my family. My brother. My sisters. I love that you can speak and dance with them as easily as you do with me.

“I love your good parts and bad parts and all the parts in between, for better or worse and until I no longer exist, in this world or another.  In heart, mind, body, soul, you, Dean—beloved, you are  _so much more_.” A smile. “And because I’ve imparted this grand confession, and now you know the depth of my love, you must also know this:

“I will always feel this way for you, and I will  _never_ not protect you, even from myself.” He presses another chaste, innocent kiss to Dean’s knee. “Know that sacrificing your own comfort for something you think I want is stupid, because I will never be happy if you are not. And know that I will wait an eternity for you.”

Castiel’s brows furrow adorably, lifting his chin from the other’s leg. “Do you understand?”

Not trusting himself to speak, Dean nods. He feels a lump in his throat and his eyes sting, but Cas, perfect human being that he is, don’t even spare the shepherd’s watering eyes a glance. Instead, the blue-eyed man smiles gorgeously, nodding back as if completely satisfied with himself. As if he just figured out how to pitch a tent rather than pour his heart out. “Okay. Now, coming into the water aside, are you okay if I wash myself?”

Another nod.

“Good. Hand me the soap.”

The hard, square bar turns out to be in the pocket of Castiel’s coat, and Dean gives it over quickly. When Cas thanks him and begins to move away, however, the shepherd is gripped with irrational, meaningless panic. “Wait!” He grabs the other’s wrist, spinning his Seraph quickly as he brings Castiel close. The movement of his body is instinctual, and what started out as a desperate need for contact becomes an accidental kiss. Cas drops the soap.

For a second both men are surprised, and though Dean’s shock melts to surety and pleasure almost instantaneously, Castiel’s seems to turn to doubt. “I didn’t say those things to trick you,” he whispers pulling away to speak. He looks pained, as if he was the one who forced Dean to kiss him and not the other way around.

The shepherd gives a small smile, carefully rearranging them so that he’s holding Castiel up by his bare waist. He presses their foreheads together deliberately, taking in the hitch of Cas’s breath with a higher quirk to his lips. “I know,” he answers belatedly.

And Dean kisses him.

Deliberate this time, and slow, the shepherd’s heart is pounding with the knowledge of what he’s about to do. Castiel drapes an arm about his shoulders, the other cupping his cheek. It’s a very meaningful kiss, one that neither seems in any rush to deepen. This works out perfectly for Dean, who takes advantage of the languid rhythm to carefully uncover himself, drawing Cas as near as possible as he maneuvers them, still kissing, into the water. Of course, the minute he’s in, Castiel pulls away. “Dean—”

“Trust me…” The shepherd delivers a small kiss to Cas’s lips. “I want this.” Then to the corner of his mouth. “Wanted it for a long time.” To his jaw.

He continues down the other’s neck as Castiel smiles. “And how long is long?”

“Since I realized I love you.”

Though saying it is one of the hardest, most courageous things he’s ever had to do, the stutter in Dean’s chest at Cas’s brilliant smile is worth it. “When was that?” the Seraph asks as his partner moves back up to press their mouths together.

“Hard to remember,” Dean smirks against his lips. “Might need to kiss me to jog my memory.”

Ever the helpful boyfriend, Castiel does.

He kisses Dean through soft, deliberate smooches and the more intense smack of lips, through displays of affection so tame and slow you think the pair a statue, to kisses almost painful in their desperation for harsh, complete closeness. Dean and Cas don’t have a set rhythm, but adjust to the highs and lows of their loving as easily as the ocean changes tide; their gasps and groans and whispered words falling effortlessly into the world’s most exquisite song.

All pressed up against each other, Dean can feel angel of Castiel’s body, from his flat, lean stomach to the sharpness of his hipbones. He becomes especially enthralled with the latter, thumbing the flesh-covered bone as he nibbles the other’s spit-slicked lips. Everything feels closer, bare and pure and almost one. Magnified. Warm. As near to perfection as Dean thinks he’ll ever be.

Castiel is a veritable God like this.

His blue eyes are dark and heavy-lidded in the darkness, his air damp and sticking up in all directions. His arms and legs and torso are so different when not obscured by heavy clothing. Sure, Dean has touched Cas’s bare skin before; robes hiked up and pulled down until a shoulder or legs are exposed in the heat of the moment, but this is different than hands slipping under clothing, fast and sloppy.

This is  _so different_.

Castiel has a beauty mark beside his right nipple, as well as on the right side of his ribcage, and Dean soon becomes obsessed with finding every single angel kiss on his lover’s body. In a fit of nonsensicality, he lifts the other man up out of the water, nipping and sucking at the marks with blasphemous reverence. “Dean!” Cas shrieks, fingers tangling tight into light hair as the shepherd licks over his ribs playfully. He’s ticklish, and jerks in Dean’s arms so violently that the pair tumble beneath the water’s surface with a splash.

Castiel resurfaces with a gasped laugh, swimming over to his partner, smiling. Their next few kisses are silly merely because they can’t get their mouths to work the right way, their lips too busy smiling and chests stuttering with jollity. “Ah, no, not there,  _Cas_ —!”

Of course, Castiel would also not be himself without extracting some kind of revenge.

“All’s fair in love and… no, no, Dean, don’t you— _aahh stop_!”

And Dean would not be himself if he didn’t retaliate.

The pair end up scrambling up the pool’s bank, naked as the day they were born. Cas chases Dean like they’re children, the pair falling onto their pile of clothing. Though Castiel ends up pinned under his shepherd, he doesn’t seem to mind the position, huffed laughter dissolving into a smile. He stares up at his love, fingertips tracing Dean’s jawline delicately.

They’re kissing again.

Hot and wet, the pair move against each other in perfect time; their controlled movements turning to fast, frantic rutting shortly after. Things feel different here than they did in the water, and the fact that Cas is breathing just as hard as he is, blush extending down his chest to that gorgeous beauty mark, isn’t helping Dean stay calm by any means. He’s crazy with the need to be closer; to find relief from what seems like this never-ending bout of arousal… to be  _full_. “Cas…”

“Anything,” Castiel breathes immediately. “Anything you want.”

Dean presses their mouths together. “Inside me,” he mouths, turning their kiss into a mock of one. “ _Please_.”

Cas doesn’t need to be asked twice, he reaches behind him, rooting around in the tangled material until he pulls out a little glass vial of scented oil. “I was hopeful,” the Seraph murmurs sheepishly when met with Dean’s raised brow.

“Hopeful?” Dean smirks.

Cas rolls his eyes; “I’m always hopeful.” He flips them unceremoniously. “I want to do every single thing in the world with you.”

Dean would have answered, if not for the oiled finger tracing his rim. As it so happens, the young man can only make vaguely intelligible noises, gripping at Castiel’s body like the blue-eyed man is the only raft on the entirety of the Nile. “Cas,  _please_ …”

Though the act of being opened is not nearly as pleasurable as the teasing beforehand, what it represents is intimate. The pair speak in soft, hushed tones, Cas adjusting his movements as per Dean’s microexpressions. He smirks when he finally hits the shepherd’s prostate.

Dean lights up like a firecracker, a loud moan pulling deep from his belly as his eyes squeeze shut, hips jerking down instinctively.

“Found you,” Cas mutters happily.

Castiel gives a few light strokes to the little gland, showering Dean’s neck with tiny kisses as the other man writhes beneath him. When the Seraph pulls away almost immediately after that, dubbing his partner ready, Dean almost doesn’t let him go. He does, of course, but not before muttering something into Cas’s shoulder, flushed with pleasure and embarrassment.

“My love?”

A lovely frisson skates up Dean’s spine just from the simple term of endearment, and he murmurs it again, green eyes wide: “Could I…? I mean, I’d like…” He cautiously turns them over, climbing on top. “Is that… okay?”

Castiel leans up on his elbows and kisses his shepherd by way of answer.

Dean and Cas make love for the first time under the stars, fingers entwined and hands pressed over Castiel’s head as they move as one.

***

“If we go back like this, everyone will know.”

Sticky and glowing with love, Dean and Cas cuddle on their pile of clothing, exhausted. Tucked into Castiel’s chest, the shepherd doesn’t flinch as they trace and play with each other’s fingers. “How?”

“The oil,” Cas murmurs. “Its scent sticks to your skin. Usually, when a couple is mated, they don’t scrub completely clean after. It’s a way to let everyone know without expressly telling them, and has the added benefit of clearly determining who is no longer looking for a mate.”

Dean frowns. “So… you mated me?” He’s not unhappy, per se, nor is he offended… but he’s upset that Cas didn’t ask him; that the Seraph went ahead and took this step without even talking to him first.

Castiel looks down. “ _No_. Well, we made love, which would technically mean that yes, we have mated, but it doesn’t have to be forever, not if you don’t want that.” He bites his lip. “I chose this spot for a reason, Dean; we can wash off any and all evidence of this happening. You just need ask.”

“And.. if I want to be mated?”

Cas’s exhale is shaky. “Then you’ll make me the happiest man alive.”

Dean nods in understanding and sits up. He can see the exact moment that his Seraph’s stomach drops. “Trust me,” he breathes, pressing the words onto Cas’s lips with a kiss.

“A-Always.” The word is choked, as if Castiel’s heart is being broken with it. He closes his eyes in resignation.

Dean will have none of that. “Cas,” he says firmly, thumbing the other’s jaw. “I… I love you, okay? I just—I want… can you trust me?”

Cas nods. He holds his breath.

He holds it when Dean leads him back into the pool, carefully scrubbing them both clean. He holds it when Dean washes his hair, and his feet; when he worships his body with a bar of soap. Castiel holds his breath when Dean dries them off on their bed of clothing, and when they’re damp and clean, the Seraph holds his breath for an entirely different reason.

Dean, carefully, has wet his hands with oil. “I love you,” he says, pressing a dab behind each of Castiel’s ears. “I love you,” he says, tracing the shape of his heart.

“Cas, I love you,” Dean declares, anointing him with love.

Castiel can’t breathe. “You… You…  _assbutt_!” the Seraph finally exclaims, pushing at his lovers shoulders. “You made me believe you wanted nothing to do with me!”

Against all odds, the shepherd  _smiles_. “How could you have  _ever_  believed that,” he asks, voice lilting playfully, “after everything we’ve been through?”

“Argh,  _Dean_!”

“You love me,” Dean teases. “Just say you love me.”

“Right now I’d sooner… argh! You’re  _impossible_!”

“And adorable.”

“Ha! As adorable as a cobra,” he seethes, clenching his jaw as he looks away. “You really… I truly thought…”

Dean frowns. “Hey… Hey, Cas, look at me.” Nothing. “ _Castiel.”_

When Cas turns, he’s crying.

“No,” Dean breathes, gathering the Seraph in his arms. “No, baby, no… I was—I joking, I was trying to…” he trails off, ears turning red. “I wanted to be romantic.”

“Next time,” Castiel laughs wetly, clutching to his partner. “Stick to flowers. You scared me, Dean.”

“I’m sorry.”

They sit there holding each other long after Cas has calmed down, the Seraph happy to cuddle and be showered with kisses. “…It was a little bit romantic,” Castiel randomly admits sometime later, smiling with the grin he feels blossom across his cheek. “May I…?”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

Castiel wets his hands and dabs oil behind Dean’s ears.

“I love you.”

***

When the shepherd and his Seraph walk back into camp, it’s early morning. They’re holding hands, and have eyes for no one but each other as they kiss in front of Castiel’s tent before parting ways. 

This time when people whisper, Dean knows what it means… and he only smiles more widely.

***

 "Is what we're doing wrong?"

Cas shifts to look at Dean from where he’s resting on the shepherd’s chest, both men laying, naked, in the pasture. They’ve been since their night at the pool a month ago, and brought blankets for this exact purpose: the after, when love-making has left them clingy and sleepy and blind to everything but each other. "...Do you want to stop?"

" _No_.” It’s a vehement answer. “…Do you?"

As if this is a preposterous suggestion, Castiel snorts, settling back into his original position. “Don’t ask stupid questions.”

Dean huffs a laugh that tapers off into contemplative silence, and Cas waits for him to finish his thought. "It's just... in Hel, there were so many rules to follow, you know? And this? Us? It would’ve  _never_  been allowed.”

“But you’re here now,” Castiel frowns. “You’re one of us. The God that watches over these lands—my people, you among them, does not abide by the same rules. He makes his own and they’re different.”

“No, I know,” Dean replies. “It’s just… God—your God,  _our God_ , I don't really know anything about Him... or His rules. Are we living in sin? Are we doing something He wouldn’t like? Cas, you and your people have done so much for me, that last thing I want to do is offend them."

Dean can feel Castiel smiling against his skin. “That’s very thoughtful of you,” he says “But completely unnecessary. Though some tribes would consider us sinners, either because of our gender or the fact that we're not married, or both, my God made everyone and everything deliberate.”

A frown. "But.. isn’t your God and theirs the same?"

"Technically yes,” Cas explains. “But... no. Personal relationships with Yahweh differ from person to person and tribe to tribe, and are very different from how the demons interact with their pantheon. The rules are not set in stone here. My tribe firmly believes that God made each and every one of us capable of love, and because He did so, any permutation of it cannot be wrong. We are, you and I, as He intended.”

“And Eden? Falling from Grace? How do you know we’re not just defects? That we’re not just a sinful, wrong side-effect?”

Cas leans up then, looking at Dean with a deep frown. “There are no side-effects,” he says firmly. “We are not  _defects_ —”

“But how do you  _know_ —”

“Because I have faith.”

The shepherd is not satisfied with that answer.

"Dean, God is everywhere,” Castiel breathes. “In the stars, in the grass… in the most insignificant creature and its opposite. God is in the harvest and the summer drought. He’s in all things that creep upon the Earth and fly in the air. How is the world so vast and gorgeous, if not created by Him? How are nature’s mechanisms so perfectly timed if not made that way by His steady hand?” Cas pauses here to collect his thoughts. “…I know my God exists because he created this world, and by observing it, I know that He loves beauty. I know that He  _loves_.

“Why are we not defects? Because defects, Dean, are not beautiful. They are ugly and wrong, and does this feel wrong?” Castiel takes his shepherd’s hand and places it firmly atop his heart. “We cannot be immoral, Dean, because I cannot explain how wonderful you are—how I feel for you—without invoking divine reverence. Don’t you see? God cares little and less of unimportant things. He cares about love, about faith… about rightness and goodness and family. God doesn’t see gender or colour. He sees nothing but the soul. And Dean,  _my_  soul… it’s entwined with yours. Irrevocably. The way I love you—”

But Dean has heard more than enough to be convinced. Completely overcome, he rolls over, pinning Cas as he kisses him with everything he has. “Marry me.”

Castiel’s smile makes him very difficult to kiss.

“Become my husband. Spend every moment of the rest of your life with me, like this. And like other ways. Tell me I’m reckless. Tackle me to the ground. Smear sheep crap on my face… kiss me… Cas,  _marry me_.”

Castiel laughs as Dean mouths these words into his neck, sobering when the shepherd pulls away, brushing their noses together. “Weren’t you listening, my silly prince?” he asks sweetly. “Marriage is nothing to the bonding of souls.”

***

“Michael, I tried—”

“Please,” Cas scoffs. “I’m no maiden. I don’t need my partner running off to my father in secret to ask for my hand. I am  _grown_ , Dean! My decisions are entirely my own!”

“Hand..?” Michael murmurs to himself.

“Cas—” Dean tries.

“This tradition is outdated and ridiculous,” Castiel continues, completely oblivious of his fiancée. “Do you truly think God meant for people to be traded like cattle? My father has nothing to do with this choice! If I’m going to be married—”

“Cas, I just—”

“ _Married_?”

“I was not an object in Hel and I’m certainly not one now. And if you think—"

Dean has had enough. "Michael," he says loudly, speaking over his lover. "I love your son. I'm going to marry him. And  _both of us_ —" He looks at Cas pointedly. "—Would appreciate your blessing if you're willing to give it."

Castiel is trying very hard to glare. He's failing.

Michael looks between the two men before scooping them both up into a bone-crushing hug. "Yahweh, I thought this day would never come," he whispers reverently. "Thank you."

Ever the drama king, Castiel rolls his eyes.

***

The wedding is held in the evening. To the beat of the setting sun, Dean and Castiel exchange vows in a language older than time, both men exchanging their colourful robes for shifts of plain white, equally light flowers woven into the circlets on their heads.

They walk down their makeshift aisle with clasped hands, thrown petals landing on their skin and in their hair as they pick up the pace the further they get, practically running by the time they reach the bonfire in the main camp area. Everyone is wearing their best clothing, and only the sweetest fruit has been picked for the occasion. It’s beautiful, but Dean truly only has eyes for Castiel. His husband is practically glowing with happiness, the shadows of the fire playing at his back like the wings of an angel.

They manage a few minutes of respite before the festivities begin, and though this is mostly because their tribe watches them with wide smiles on their faces. The pair simply hold each other for a while, sharing soft, sweet, happy kisses before Michael leads them to the pillowed dais, pouring them each a glass of wine. 

“My friends!” the older man booms. “I ask you all to fill your cups, for this occasion is one of joy and merriment! May God smile upon you, Dean and Castiel, and ensure that your flock may prosper, your glass never empty, your fields be forever full. May Yahweh bless you with happiness for years to come, and your love light the way in even the densest pitch. Castiel,” Michael smiles, “though I truly believe this marriage a miracle, I could not be more pleased with my new son. To the happy couple!”

“L’Chaim!” Castiel grins.

Everyone drinks long and deep, Dean and Cas’s arms interlinked as they smile at each other through their cups. After the toast, they sit, listening to music and feeding each other bits of fruit, the fingers between them always entwined. They accept wedding gifts: little things like new and painted bowl and big things like more comfortable bedding. Dean and Castiel thank everyone with equally genuine and excited smiles, mostly because the prospect of having a life together has never been so exciting.

Next is dancing. Though there’s no ceremonial dance for the newlyweds, Dean and Cas take up most of the space, twirling and touching and holding hands. They spin, an arm around the other’s waist as they stand shoulder to shoulder.

“We’re married,” Castiel breathes later that night, the words filling the nonspace between them as they lie, naked and warm, with each other in their new tent.

Dean nods. He presses a smiley kiss to Cas’s shoulder, and thinks, not for the first time, that he is the luckiest man alive. 

“ _We’re married_.”

They sleep like they will for the rest of their lives: entangled and belonging, filled with endless love.


End file.
